Lady of the Night

As told by Mercy at Deadmen Tales.

Standing she walks gracefully towards the fire and holds her hands out near the flames but felt no heat. She looked around at everybody. “This is not silly pirate story or a story about kings and queens or royal fleets. This story is about the Lady of the Night. First let me begin with what I am now. For you will have a better understanding when I tell you how I became what I am today.”

He gripped my arm, it tempered me, and interrupted me pulling up the black stockings I wore a few hours ago. He squeezed hard; I could feel it through my thin arm to my bone. I stopped with my stocking as he glared at me, afflicted, his mouth opened, but the noise was silent aside from a struggling inhale of high-pitched grunts. His eyes glazed, and they pleaded for me to save him from me. That I couldn’t do, but I gave him what he needed, to be noticed by me, and so I waited with him as the last of his blood pulsed from his neck, soaking the pillow and bed sheets he laid on.

Some say life lingers for a few seconds after the breath ceases, but I always wondered if the moment their Sál left was when their eyes went dry of life. I certainly knew when it entered my Hir∂ir. First a numbing pain in my center, then moved to a pleasurable sinking in my spine pushing through my body as it did in that very moment. It forced my eyes to close and take in a deep breath as the feeling passed, like I did so many times before. I suppose for you it would be like trying to keep your eyes open when you sneeze.

There was noise coming from the next room over. The thumping of a bed with moans and grunts. I slipped my stocking all the way up, and then my long skirt of blue and purple, followed by my dark corset of roses, and finally a white blouse. I stood before the blood could seep to where I was sitting. I gave him one last look. He was a young man, almost a boy, a sophomore at Harvard, studying philosophy. That was what brought him to my room. He was wooing me with his amateur wisdom, discussing the nature of witches over several drinks of bourbon. An odd subject for him to bring up. I don’t even remember how the topic surfaced. He had a noticeable fascination with the Salem witch trials. He argued, more with himself, that the period marked the end of theocracy. But that wasn’t what raged me to cause the troubling mess. No, it was his insinuation, ‘witches themselves were the children of the devil and they should have been burned like hell itself, instead of being hung like swaying sacks of potatoes.' His words.

That definitely was why I was messier than usual and nearly ripped out his throat. Mr Parker would have a private fit, but it mattered not, I paid him what was required, and always added an extra bit of gold for the more extravagant requests. As I walked to the corner window, half opened, white thin curtain danced from the early evening breeze, I looked out and down at the streets below. This was The Parker House Hotel, and this corner room was mine when I needed it, overlooking the cross streets. The cold rain from earlier left behind puddles, but few people were about to disturb them.
Boston was an elite city, filled with rich clergymen, Boston Brahmins and civic leaders, most of which played a public role in keeping the vice of the city’s sins a secret, yet a growing number of them could be found partaking in such impurities.

I blinked back to a passing horse and buggy, the hooves clicking on the stone, some puddles disturbed. After shutting the window, I turned and gathered my small leather pouch of money, taking out a gold coin and placing it on a burgundy varnished bureau next to the unused basin of water. I put the pouch in my skirt pocket and left the third-floor room, closing and locking the door behind me.

As I entered the lobby from the flight of stairs, a gentleman nearly bumped with an apology before looking up. “Excuse me — forgive me and a good evening, Madam Morstad.”

The man was dressed in a fine matching suit of black, complete with bowtie, a vest, pants, and jacket, over top a white shirt tucked neat. His beard was big and slightly graying between the bushy brown. His mustache was longer than his beard and nearly as exuberant. His hair was tidy at the center and curled just beyond his ears.

“And you, Mr Lowell. Is it your Saturday again? Where does that time go?”

“Quite so Madam, quite so.” He chuckled forcefully.

He was a romantic, troubled but inspiring on the topic of love through poems. “And how is, Frances?” I asked out politeness, I didn’t really care.
“Well, and as colorful as the autumn foliage.”

I smiled and could tell he wanted to begin a conversation, but one philosopher was enough for a night. I walked away with a simple nod, leaving him to his disappointment.

The concierge by the door was eyeing me, waiting for an acknowledgement. I nodded and he scurried outside to fetch Mr. Da’jonte Pitts my coachman
I noticed Mr. Parker was talking to senator Charles Sumner, whom, I am told by Mr Lowell himself, frequented their Saturday dinner along with others, such as the poet Longfellow and philosopher Emerson. They were a meeting of minds, talking like they understood life.

As I proceeded to the door, attempting to ignore Mr. Parker’s effort in waving me over, but the calling of my name in a near yelp compelled me to acknowledge him. And it was only proper of me to at least offer a hint to my housekeeping matter.

“Mr. Parker.” I hoped that would have been enough to convince him I was in little mood of talk.

“Will you be returning this evening? Shall I have your room settled by the chambermaid?” He tilted his head, almost cringing to the question itself, because he knew the many possibilities. I stopped short of the door, I’m quite sure my stare lasted longer than it should had, but he took notice nonetheless and nodded enthusiastically. “Yes, yes, I’ll be sure to have your room in fine order for your next visit.”

I smiled and left, and sat comfortably in the carriage.

My thoughts wondered to the young man in the room, I could have let him live, or even still, give him my curse to share. I remember that day, so clearly…

I was coming from Simon Thorsen’s homestead, only but a quarter mile from ours and closer still to the village of Ribe. Usually Oskar, my eldest son, and Natasja, my only daughter, would accompany me, but Oskar was with his father. The boy had reached hesterfør og drikkefør, meaning he successfully rode a horse for a day’s run. He was likely now drinking mead and ale with his father and uncles. Natasja on the other hand, who was near fourteen, was looking after our home and my little one, Esben of three years.

The autumn aromas were yielding to the strong smell of smoke from nearby homes softly glowing between the birch and blackthorn trees. The night was arriving sooner with each passing day. The winter was young, and the air was sharp and crisp. I was returning after trading for salt and walnuts to be used for Oskar’s feast tomorrow upon their return.

Olin would soon have Oskar traveling with him to the south lands for raiding. That day I would fear most, as I did not believe he was ready in spite of his father’s blessing. He was only of twelve years, not even a man yet. And Olin would set sail earlier next spring as we were running out of our silver and dirham. Fish and apples were not enough to push us through late spring.

I pulled tight my cloak over my ankle length coat from a sudden wind. There was a snap. I stopped, turning swiftly, my hand instantly gripping the handle of my knife. “Who goes? Simon?” I waited with no response, cautiously I continued, measuring my steps as quietly as I could to not miss a sound that was not my own.

Another snap of a branch and then more from the wooded area to the side. I froze and fumbled with my knife. I knew it was dull from Oskar’s habit of wood carving. Holding it out I managed to turn sharply at another sound but nothing.

“Show your—.”

“—I did not mean to startled you.”

I felt the words breathing upon my neck before I heard them, sending a chill threw my body that was colder than the night’s air. The voice jolted me to turn and thrust with my knife, but his hand caught mine with a quickness my eyes couldn’t capture. The strength in his hold was telling, beyond anything my brother’s ever held my down in our childish play.

“You will release me.” My voice shook as much as my hand did.

“Forgive me, my intentions were not to put a fright in you. I am Lycidas.” He smiled, yet there as a chilling nature behind its beautiful slant. His hair hung low, longer than mine but much brighter, like the sun deep in the day. His features were sharp with high cheekbones like my own. Slowly he released my hand but his stayed as I pulled mine away.

“Your name is not known to me.” This time my voice was stronger, but it mattered not, in spite of his release, he gripped my soul unknowingly at the time.

The back of his hand grazed my cheek causing my eyes to close. His touch was gentle and held a warmth I pushed into, but behind it was an icy chill seeping to my bones.

“I have seen you at the market.” He said with a songlike voice.

Blinking I attempted to move away from his touch, but couldn’t, instead I found my own hand upon his, keeping it in place. “I’ve not been to the market.” I whispered.

“Not today, no. But four nights ago, you traded milk and honey for peaches and pepper and a barrel of mead.” He licked his lips in a manner men shouldn’t. It aroused me uncontrollably, his stare reached inside of me. “Your skin is soft, like new fallen snow, and yet your eyes do not deceive your age. You are perfect with a wisdom that will understand.”

“What —” I whispered feebly. “—what will I understand?”

His breathing intensified, he suddenly he was on me and with it he carried an inhuman growl. “What you will become.”

I felt the pain, and I cried out, but it was a soundless plea as my breath was taken with his piercing kiss on my neck. My legs let go of the ground but he held me in place, his strong arms cloaked my weakness. Our bodies fell, like a feather, to the softness of the dying grass. I didn’t feel us land, but I felt the cold earth beneath me, and it was like death, pulling and clawing the life from me. I wrapped around him, a crying prayer of shelter against the slaying of my soul.

Then he was gone, and I found myself staring up at the starry sky with an unbearable pain pulsing. My attempts to cry out were caught in my heavy breath. I rolled over, with barely enough strength to get to my knees. What followed was blurred and clouded, but call it the lifting of Thor’s hammer, giving me strength, and carrying me to a nearby mead hall. It had been abandoned years ago and was almost empty, what remained were a few tables and an iron caldron at the middle. The center hole above for the fire pit had broken open wide letting in the stars and moon’s light.
Again, I called out, my screams echoed off wooden walls, bouncing back to me. The more I cried out the less strength was found within the words. And then I noticed it, not at first did I understand, but as I pushed back against the wall there was a presence in the hall. Familiar and haunting.
“What did you do to me?” I whimpered.

“Nearly killed you.”

“What are you?”

“I am death, and I am life.”

“You are Draugr.” Saying the word made me sob.

He laughed, it came from the darkness in the far corner. “Perhaps I am such, but I’ve been called many things. Some say I’m the prince of demons, Ashmodai himself.” He chuckled. The word he spoke was unfamiliar. He made himself known by stepping out of the darkness and walked, no glided, almost floating towards me. “You can be my Lilith as I’ve given you a wonderful opportunity.”

I pushed against the wall more. “I do not know what trickery you speak of, but my death will be yours as well. My husband will see to it, he is a great warrior and Thor will cast you to Helheim.”

This made him laugh more, and I hated the way if filled the place comfortably, like the haunting sound was meant for the hall. I pushed again as he got closer, this time my hand touched something. I glanced, noticing a broken horn, a symbol of Heimdall. I gripped it tight. He was close to me, kneeling, and it was then I saw the eyes for what they were, amber and bright, yet they carried a welcomed softness, as if he had understood my vulnerability caused by him.

He suddenly bit into his own wrist, blood dripping from his mouth and chin as he placed it to my mouth. I wasn’t sure why, but I needed to taste him as he tasted me and I took hold of him, drinking his blood like it was warm and sweet mead of the gods. Time stood still, I cannot say how long I drank or he allowed me to, but it felt like the age of the gods themselves.

As he pulled away, I jolted forward for more, my body feeling the rush of heat leaving in an instant, replaced with a wanting for what I experienced that suddenly had no time, like a flicker of a small flame. I cried out for more, but he only continued to kneel in front of me.
“Patience.” He simply said.

A numbness flooded my body, I tightened excitement, or more a panic, a dying breath as my beating heart slowly ceased. I knew I was dying. Perhaps I knew the moment he touched back the pathway home. It was then that my children and husband become distant, an unwanted memory, and for that, a rage filled me for what was slipping away at his convenience.

“You are moving to eternity. Let it pass, do not fight it.”

“What have — you done?”

“Shh.”

The horn still tightly gripped, I thrusted up into his chest. He gasped, surprised. Again, I thrusted, over and over as rage consumed me until finally one last strike kept the horn lodged between his ribs. He fell back, his skin graying his blonde hair losing its color as his eyes dimmed. He went motionless.
I laid there for a time, breathing heavy but the pounding of my chest was empty. Where there should have been life, there was calm and silence. I was dead, but I was alive.